The boy sat on his bed, and Bradley sat on the old wooden stool facing him, so close that both their knees were touching.
"But it hurts! They cut my fingers!"
"If you practice, then your fingers'll get so tough you won't even feel it. And press straight down . . . . see? Don't slide. If you slide your fingers on the strings they'll cut for sure."
The boy hiccuped, fighting tears of frustration. This was stupid! He wanted to play the guitar for real, not practice dumb notes that hurt his fingers. He wanted to play Home On The Range, just like Bradley. Why couldn't he just play the guitar? Why couldn't he be fourteen? He bet he'd be able to play the guitar if he was fourteen, like Bradley.
"Really wanna play like me?"
The boy nodded mutely.
"You can, but y'really gotta practice. Every day. Like they say, you gotta learn to walk before you can run and you gotta learn to run before you can fly."
"Fly? Can you fly?" Sore fingers forgotten, the boy looked shyly into Bradley's sombre, freckled face. "You can't fly for real, can you?" But in his heart he knew that somehow, Bradley could.
Bradley grinned with delight. "Of course! Anyone can fly! Just flap your arms fast enough and you'll take off like Superman. But you gotta keep your eyes closed all the time, 'cause if you open them, you'll fall outta the air and kill yourself."
The boy gaped in wonder. "Yeah?" he asked uncertainly. "Show me!"
Bradley cupped a hand into an armpit and pumped rapidly, producing several loud, voluptuous farts.
The boy howled at the wonderful sounds. He tossed the guitar onto his bed, and tried to make his armpits fart too, but nothing happened. "I can't do it!" he said, still laughing.
"Like I said, you gotta practice. You gotta learn to walk before you can fart."
They both roared with laughter.
"Huh-muhhh!!" Bradley shouted. The boy felt Bradley's breath on his face. It chuffed like a train engine. "Muhhh!!"
The boy couldn't see through his laughter. Bradley was so funny!
"Muhhh!!"
Something scraped hard against the boy's leg, and he heard a thump. He wiped his eyes so he could see what Bradley was doing now, but Bradley wasn't in front of him any more; he wasn't sitting on the stool, or making farts with his armpits. He was flat on his back on the floor, with his arms thrown stiffly behind his head, with his feet stuck through the legs of the stool, with the small of his back slowly arching up then down, up then down, over and over again.
The boy watched Bradley for a while, wondering what trick he was playing now, but Bradley just lay there. Soon he stopped moving up and down, and he looked like he was fast asleep. "Whatcha doin' that for?" the boy asked, but Bradley didn't answer.
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